Prayers of Agnes Sparrow

by Joyce Magnin

  “Nice way to put it.”

  9

  Studebaker showed up ten minutes after Hezekiah left.

  “Good news, Agnes,” he said. “Your sign is all finished and on its way from Scranton. Be here the day after tomorrow.”

  Agnes continued chewing her ziti. She looked at me as if looking at Stu would open up floodgates that hadn’t been opened in years.

  “I told you, Stu,” I said. “Agnes isn’t interested in the sign.”

  She swallowed and adjusted herself. Her left leg was bent up toward her chest and her thigh was a thick lava bed of extra skin. Agnes peered out the window for more than a minute before she turned her head to Stu.

  “It's all right, Studebaker. Whatever you all need to do is fine with me.”

  Her words about knocked me off my feet.

  “But, Agnes that's not—”

  She put her hand up. “I’m not fighting the will of the people anymore, Griselda. In the end, what does it matter anyway? It's just a sign.”

  I can’t say for sure what happened in that long minute that Agnes looked out the window, but something changed her mind.

  Studebaker lit up like a Christmas tree. “Agnes, thank you! Thank you. This means a lot to the people, especially Cora right now. She's been skipping around town like a teenager.”

  “God bless her,” said Agnes. She turned to me. “I’m only here to pray.”

  Stu pulled the rocking chair close to Agnes. “I was just at the diner, and me and Boris got to talking about the unveiling.”

  “Unveiling?” Agnes looked at me when she said it.

  “Of the sign,” Stu said. “We got it all planned for next month's town meeting. “It might be too big to get into the building, but we figure folks won’t mind standing outside for it. Boris is lining up the Dixieland band to come out and maybe even the VFW will do something.”

  It made my toes curl up. I wanted to run, but it was like watching a car accident. I couldn’t turn away.

  “Did you hear that, Griselda?” Agnes said. “They’re gonna get a Dixieland band.”

  “And maybe a barbershop quartet,” Stu said.

  If I didn’t smile, I would have cried.

  “The only thing missing will be you, Agnes.” Stu bent down and kissed her cheek. “But we’ll have Dabs Lemon take lots of shots. He's gonna write it up for the paper, Agnes. Front page news, I’m sure.”

  The sign arrived that Thursday on the back of a long flatbed truck with the name Scranton Sign Company in gold letters on the side of the cab. Stu and Boris went on out to the turnpike and escorted the driver into town with their horn blasting and flashers flashing all the way. Stu borrowed Mildred's cop light and stuck it on the top of his station wagon. I was surprised the Dixieland band wasn’t there or at least a barbershop quartet to sing When the Saints Go Marching In.

  I was standing in the viewing room waiting for Agnes to finish her asthma treatment when I saw the truck carrying the sign moving ever so slowly down the street.

  Folks popped out of their houses. Small kids lined the street and waved. The driver tooted his horn once and Agnes flipped the nebulizer mask off her face.

  “What in tarnation—”

  “A truck horn, Agnes. A big truck horn. Looks like your sign made it up the mountain.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Too late, it's down the hill now.”

  I replaced the mask on Agnes and patted her arm. “About lunchtime. I’ll bring you some pot roast.”

  Agnes and I finished out the day sorting through our parents’ clothes, a task we had avoided for years. Hezekiah brought them up from the basement and piled them on the red velvet couch. It wasn’t so tough handling their things, especially when we made the decision to keep none of it. I did catch a whiff of my father's Aqua Velva every so often and had to swipe a few tears. Agnes never flinched, although I sensed she might have been looking for something in particular the way she rifled through the piles I placed on her bed.

  All I kept was one of my father's striped ties. I put it with his fishing rod and tackle box. And I found a string of pearls tucked into the pocket of my mother's Sunday coat.

  “They’re the real McCoy,” said Agnes. “I remember when Daddy gave them to her—their tenth anniversary.”

  I didn’t remember the occasion. I left the pearls on Agnes's bedside table, thinking she deserved something pretty even though the strand would never fit around her neck.

  Hezekiah helped me bag them up the next day and used my truck to haul the sacks to the Salvation Army—the very one in Shoops he used to frequent.

  “Seems a good thing to do after all the soup I ate there,” he said when I handed him the key.

  The welcome sign sat under a plastic tarp on a trailer out in front of the town hall until the unveiling. Seeing as how it got dark at six o’clock and the meetings didn’t start until after seven usually, lights were brought in for the occasion. Boris asked some of the men to park their cars and shine their headlights on it.

  I was at the library the day of the unveiling when I heard the Dixieland band marching down the street playing Stars and Stripes Forever. It was around three o’clock; I suppose they had to practice and get in proper formation.

  Vidalia was checking out a book.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “The band for the meeting tonight. Stu and Boris are unveiling the welcome sign.”

  “And they hired a band for that?”

  “And a barbershop quartet or at least the VFW might be there to … I don’t know, to salute it or something.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

  I made it home around four and found Agnes praying with Hezekiah again. As far as anyone knew, he still hadn’t received his miracle. And, as far as I knew, no one had any idea what his request was all about anyway. Usually, I stayed in the foyer until I heard the “Amen,” but that day I didn’t. I ignored them both and went straight upstairs.

  March blew into town on the back of a fierce lion that year. The wind whipped around outside, and I thought it was a pretty terrible day to unveil anything. Arthur mewled on the windowsill. He was watching the crows high in the tree-tops. It always amazed me how they clung to the tippiest top branches as they swayed. I scratched his ears.

  “What a day this has turned out to be, huh, Artie.”

  Most early March days in the mountains were windy and cold, but that day was especially raw and blustery. Tears filled my eyes as I watched outside. A small tempest of leaves swirled over the lawn like the small tempest of worries swirling in my brain. I hated the sign, and I hated that I was going to the unveiling, but how could I not go?

  Vidalia would have said to stay home if I wanted, but my thoughts turned to Agnes. She would want me there, if for no other reason than to bring the attention back to God. But that day I didn’t see how God could have anything to do with that sign or Bright's Pond.

  The front door slammed shut as it was prone to do in a high wind. Hezekiah must have left for the day, although I was certain he would be at the unveiling. Hezekiah had become as devoted a follower of Agnes as anyone who had lived in Bright's Pond their whole lives.

  I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, pulled my hair in a ponytail, and slipped into sneakers—a favorite pair that had remained mole and mouse-free.

  “Thank you, Arthur, for not leaving me a prize today.”

  I plucked him from the sill in time to see a pheasant explode out of the woods in a whirlwind of rust and gold and purple and leaves.

  Agnes and I ate a quiet supper together. I expected her to say a few things—at least about the sign—but she didn’t.

  “Guess you better go,” she said in-between mouthfuls of spaghetti. “They’ll be expecting you.”

  “How come you’re not so upset about it anymore, Agnes? It's like you … well … like it's all okay now all of a sudden.”

  “Okay about what, Griselda?”

  “Oh, don’t be that way
. You know perfectly well about what.”

  She rolled a meatball around her plate with her fork. “It wasn’t helping being upset. Letting them have their sign is just another way to—” she took a labored breath “—to take care of them.”

  After supper I cleaned up the plates and left them in a sink of soapy water. I put food away and brought Agnes a large piece of pie, and then I decided I still had time to drop a load of laundry in the washer. Laundry seemed endless at our house—endless. I often stepped over piles in the viewing room as Agnes would change and leave her clothes wherever they fell. Sometimes, Hezekiah would carry the clothes into the laundry room, but he never washed them and that was fine with me. I didn’t like the idea of him handling my sister's clothes like that, particularly her underwear.

  Once the washer was full and the plates soaking and Agnes situated in front of the TV with pie and M&Ms, I headed down the street. The wind had quieted with the sunset. A crowd had already gathered inside the Full Moon for dinner or coffee before the meeting.

  Zeb spied me the second my foot landed inside. A wide smile lit up his face. “Griselda,” he called, “come sit at the counter.”

  He poured my coffee and tried to talk to me, but the place was so busy he couldn’t finish a sentence. I signaled him that it was okay, drank my coffee, and headed outside.

  The Dixieland band—a group of seven men—had assembled on the lawn. They wore red coats with shiny silver buttons and hats made of leather and cloth. The tuba player stood next to his instrument that sat on a chair. He didn’t look very happy.

  The headlights from a dozen cars illuminated the tarp that kept the sign under wraps. Studebaker was standing near it like he was guarding Fort Knox.

  “What are you doing, Stu?” I asked.

  “A couple of boys were by here earlier,” he said. “They tried to lift the tarp, so I’m keeping my eye on it.”

  “You’re a good man, Stu. True to your cause.”

  I caught up with Ruth Knickerbocker in the crowd filing into the town hall.

  “Everyone is so excited,” she said. “It's like static electricity in the air.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I imagine Agnes is awful excited,” said Ruth. She took off her hat and coat.

  “Oh, excited isn’t the word for it.”

  Just then, the reporter Dabs Lemon stopped me.

  “You’re the sister,” he said.

  I sucked freezing air into my lungs. “Yes, I’m Agnes's sister if that's what you mean.”

  “Can I ask a few questions?”

  Did I have a choice?

  I motioned for him to follow me into the building. There were no treats or coffee that night as Zeb agreed to stay open past eight. Everyone had gotten their fill at the café anyway.

  “First, I need to tell you that I don’t believe in all that miracle stuff and prayer nonsense, so don’t go thinking you’re gonna sell me your religion.”

  I snorted a small laugh. “Then why are you here, Mr. Lemon?”

  “The story. It's a mighty fine human-interest story. And … my boss sent me.”

  “So how can I help you? Agnes is the one who prays.”

  “I know. I’ve gotten the history from Studebaker Kowalski, but I want to know the real Agnes,” he said. “Tell me about the real girl … woman.” He poised his pencil on a small, yellow legal pad like I was about to solve the riddle of the Sphinx.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Lemon. What are you asking?”

  “Well, you live with her. You care for her. What's it really like for a seven-hundred-pound woman to be a hero, a hero that can’t leave her house, can’t even enjoy her one night of recognition? How fat is she anyway? I mean I can’t picture seven-hundred pounds of anything let alone a woman.”

  “Agnes doesn’t consider herself a hero.”

  Janeen Sturgis grabbed his elbow. “Oh, she is so a hero, a true hero. Let me tell you how her prayers helped me.”

  She pulled him far enough away that I didn’t have to listen.

  Vidalia sidled up next to me. “Let's sit together.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Like I said, Griselda, I couldn’t let you come alone.”

  I squeezed her hand. “I guess we should find a seat.”

  Within minutes the room was jam-packed and Boris was upfront with Stu. Boris had settled down the room and was just about to bring the meeting to order when Eugene Shrapnel nearly stumbled through the door.

  “Oh, ye den of vipers,” he shouted.

  Ivy Slocum was first to her feet. I could see from the look on her face she was not about to take any grief from Eugene that night.

  “Shut your mouth, now, Eugene Shrapnel. You got no business here.”

  “That's right,” shouted Bill Sturgis. “Just get on home with yourself.”

  “One day,” Eugene said with a finger raised above his head, “one day you’ll regret your actions.”

  He stamped his cane on the floor but was quickly ushered out by Nate Kincaid, who never said much, but was big enough that words weren’t necessary.

  Vidalia took my hand in hers and leaned close. “I am so sorry, baby girl.”

  Boris pounded his gavel.

  Many of the formalities of the usual town meeting were dispatched with haste since everyone was anxious to get to the unveiling. Dot Handy scribbled notes so fast I thought I saw sparks. Boris turned the meeting over to Studebaker.

  He wore a crisp, brown suit with a herringbone pattern and a yellow and white polka dot tie.

  “Looks like he pulled his burial suit out of moth balls,” I whispered to Vidalia.

  Stu cleared his throat. “I don’t have to tell you why we’re here.” Applause drowned his words. “But I will anyway.”

  More applause and a whistle.

  Stu took five minutes to explain all about the sign and Agnes and the miracles, including the Jesus pie. He even thanked Jack Cooper for having the good sense not to toss the thing in the trash. A collective amen filtered through the crowd as Stu explained that the pie was fed to the birds.

  I found out later that he suspended the tin from a string and tied it on a branch of the willow tree out back of the church. Zeb said he didn’t want it—said he couldn’t see baking another pie in it—so now it shines in the sunlight like an ornament.

  “And now,” Stu said, “without further ado—” He chuckled a second. “I’ve been wanting to say that my whole life. Without further ado, I suggest we all head outside for the unveiling.”

  The second the doors opened the band started playing When the Saints Come Marching In. The crowd assembled around the sign. Vidalia and I managed to work our way closer to the diner and joined Zeb who stood in the cold with only a white apron over his clothes.

  “Pretty exciting, huh, Grizzy,” he said.

  A drumroll drifted through the cold air, and Stu climbed onto the trailer and unknotted the rope that held down the tarp. The tarp dropped. Cheers and applause went up as the headlights shown like moons in the starry night.

  Stu stood next to the sign like a proud fisherman as Dabs snapped a few shots. Then Stu turned his attention to the large blue sign with gold lettering and flowery embellishments.

  “Welcome to Bright's Pond,” he read. “Home of Agnes Sparrow.”

  “Sparrow?” shouted a voice from the crowd, followed by other exclamations. “You better look again, Studebaker. That sign don’t say Sparrow.”

  Stu shushed the band that had started playing the Stars and Stripes Forever.

  “It says Swallow,” Bill Tompkins shouted. “They got the wrong dang bird. Ain’t no swallows in town, only Sparrows.”

  Zeb, Vidalia, and I moved as close to the sign as we could. Studebaker looked at the sign with a face that showed every emotion known to the human race. Every couple of seconds it would contort into something different and turn redder. Steam rose off his neck.

  Boris leaped onto the trailer. “Swallow. It says Swallow
, Studebaker. The name is wrong.”

  “I can see that now,” he said. “You don’t got to bring it to my attention.”

  “Didn’t you bother to look at it before tonight? The sign's been sitting out here the better part of two weeks. And in all that time you never bothered to look under that tarp?”

  “Yeah,” said Bill Tompkins, “how come you never checked the sign? This is your fault, Studebaker.”

  “Now hold on,” said Stu. “It ain’t my fault. It's the sign company's.”

  I believe it was then that the band started playing a terrible, but still distinguishable, rendition of Nearer My God To Thee, as Studebaker was about to go down with his sign.

  “We aren’t paying for no wrong sign,” said Fred Haskell.

  “Of course not,” said Stu. “I’ll call them first thing in the morning. We’ll get this fixed.”

  Zeb snickered and put his arms around mine and Vidalia's shoulders. “That's too bad. Poor Stu. I shouldn’t laugh.”

  Plenty of laughter came from other directions that night, including a small pack of teenagers who lurked near the town hall steps. I saw one of them form a snowball and was just about to let loose when Mildred grabbed his arm. Good old Mildred Blessing—always on the lookout for troublemakers.

  “Well, at least this mistake will spare Agnes for a few more weeks,” I said.

  Vidalia held my hand and squeezed. “It ain’t just a mistake. Never really is, Griselda. You know what I mean?”

  Folks drifted away after they filed past the sign like mourners paying their last respects. Janeen and Frank Sturgis lingered a moment. “It's only three letters,” said Janeen, “and it is a bird; at least they got that right.”

  Frank reached up and shook Stu's hand, “I’ve got to give you some credit, pal, when you screw up, you really screw up.”

  Stu dropped Frank's hand like a hot rivet. “I told them Sparrow. S-P-A-R-R-O-W. It's not my fault.”

  “I can’t watch this no more,” said Vidalia. “It's just too painful to see that man so humiliated.”

  “Yeah,” said Zeb, “I better get back to the café. Cora's probably going nuts in there with orders. You coming, Grizzy?”